Canyons of Mercy
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: (Post-Exodus) - Clark is missing. Pete searches.


Rated: PG-13  
Summary: Clark is lost. Pete searches.

**CANYONS OF MERCY  
by ingrid**

~*~

All he brought with him on the bus ride there was a backpack and a lukewarm bottle of Vanilla Coke. It was so flat as to be undrinkable, at least according to his previous standards of what could be considered fit for consumption.

The trip took four hours. He unscrewed and tightened the soda cap absently the entire way, staring out the window as the corn fields turned into neat suburban backyards then into scrap lots, endless junkyards filled with bent steel and shattered glass.

He got suddenly thirsty at that point and drained the bottle dry. 

"General Station, Metropolis," the bus driver yelled when the bus finally rolled to a jerky stop. 

Peter Ross broke into a cold sweat as the other passengers squeezed down the narrow aisle past him, all of them with someplace to go -- someone to meet. 

He had none of the above.

All he had was a city map, a few changes of clothes, the thousand dollars Jonathan Kent gave him and with a cell phone so he could keep in touch.

Or call for help, he guessed. Either way, it wasn't much.

On this trip nothing was going to be much help.

Pete struggled to his feet, his legs numb from sitting so long in a cramped position. Squeezed down the bus stairs into the station, grimacing at the loud noise of rushed commuters and the thick, rubbery smell of overheated vehicles.

Signs pointed to exits, naming streets he'd never heard of. He walked toward the nearest one -- Mercy Avenue -- thinking it sounded as good as any other. 

Pete jogged up the cement stairs, blinking in the bright sunlight reflected off a dozen or more high-rise buildings. The street was noisier than the station with the honking traffic and the rushing crowds and he had to stop a minute, just to breathe and get his bearings. 

A few turns in helpless circles before Pete finally pulled out his map. 

"Try not to look like a tourist," Jonathan Kent had cautioned him, but what the hell did he know, Pete thought bitterly. 

The man was half out of his mind with grief and worry, with his wife curled in a ball in her bed, not even acknowledging Pete's greeting when he tiptoed into her room to give his condolences.

Her baby was dead. Clark was gone, run away to Metropolis and Jonathan Kent couldn't be in two places at once. He had to stay beside Martha, who did nothing but stare blankly at the wall between bouts of sobbing and Jonathan wept himself as he talked with Pete deep into the night at the kitchen table, the coffee cups growing cold in their hands. 

"Clark's a man now," he tried to rationalize sternly, his eyes red and swollen. "He has to follow what his heart tells him to do."

"Mr. Kent, you know that's not true and even if it were, that's besides the point," Pete said. "We _have_; to find Clark, not just for Clark's sake." Behind them, the sun was slowly rising through the drawn kitchen curtains. "You know we have to find Clark before something bad happens."

Jonathan's lower lip trembled. He looked defeated. "I _can't_ leave Martha like this to look for Clark, Pete. We've sacrificed so much for him, and look at what's happened and I " Desperately. "I can't do it, Pete," he whispered hoarsely. "I just can't."

"Then I'll do it," Pete said, and from that point on there was no turning back. He knew there would be arguments, but in reality, they both knew they had no choice. 

Three days and a few thousand lies to his parents later, Pete was ready to head to Metropolis.

"Be careful. If you get uncomfortable at any point, just come home," Jonathan said at the Smallville bus depot, handing him an envelope filled with twenty fifty-dollar bills. "Keep in touch with me. Don't go into bad neighborhoods. Stay inside at night."

"I'll be fine, Mr. Kent." And he meant it too.

But once there, Pete saw things weren't going to be fine.

It took about ten seconds of scratching his head over the map for him to realize that Metropolis was _huge_. Like a thousand Smallvilles, branched out into a million Main Streets, all of them foreboding and unfamiliar. 

With a sigh, Pete tucked the map away and decided to amble for a while instead, down through the cement canyons of Mercy, the avenue that stretched north, seemingly to infinity.

He didn't like what he saw.

Cold and sterile Starbucks instead of friendly Talons, X-rated book stores instead of the local library and there, directly in front of him, Pete noticed that the entrance to the main LuthorCorp building was draped in black crepe, dark mourning whispering above its high glass doors.

For Lex, Pete supposed, feeling a chill deep in his blood. Poor bastard, he couldn't help but think. He never cared for the man, but to go down in your honeymoon plane, crashing headfirst into the ocean that was a cold fate for anyone. Too fucking cold.

Pete wondered how Clark would take the news. The newspapers had talked about nothing else for the past week, so maybe he'd seen it. But if he had and still hadn't come home 

A shrill screech to his right, and shocked, Pete looked down to see a car bumper touching his thigh. 

"What the FUCK are you doing?" a driver screamed, half of his body sticking out the car window. His face was beet red with rage. "You dumb motherfucker! Watch where you're going!"

Pete jumped a little at the wild curses and ran to the sidewalk. He weakly flipped a middle finger at the car's disappearing rear end before heading down the avenue, staring at the sidewalk, avoiding nonexistent stares.

A YMCA was on the corner of Mercy and 66th. Its door was made of thick steel and Pete had to inhale deeply before opening it. Inside, the lights were dim and the air smelled faintly of dirty sweatsocks. 

Five minutes later, Pete had a locker and a cot. It was more expensive than he thought it would be and infinitely less attractive than his own warm bed at home. Sitting on the edge of the grubby mattress, Peter Ross felt a nearly overwhelming urge to grab his things and run screaming back to the bus station for a two o'clock ride home.

But he couldn't do it. Pete _knew_ he couldn't live with himself if he ran for the hills and that was perhaps the scariest thing of all.

For distraction, he unfolded the map again. Closed his eyes and pressed his fingertip blindly to the paper. When he opened them, he squinted to examine where his finger landed.

Russett Road. Southside, near the copper plant. He'd have to buy a guidebook to see what was what there, but it was as good a place to start as any. Clark was strong, very strong -- maybe he'd try for a factory job, not having too many skills outside the farm. Who knew?

Before then, he'd hit an Internet cafe and hack into the city's utilities records like Chloe had taught him to. Maybe the police blotters too, but he didn't have the confidence he'd be as successful there as Chloe always seemed to be.

Pete bit his lip, missing her suddenly. Missing how things used to be.

Life had been simple once. He hadn't noticed at the time but now that the simplicity was gone 

Pete Ross rubbed his eyes harshly, willing away the tears that threatened.

Yeah, life had been simple once.

~*~

The Internet revealed nothing. He tried under Clark Kent, Jerome Kent, even "Kal-El" -- the strange alien name the ship had called him -- but nothing came up.

Pete thought about e-mailing Dr. Swann, Clark's friend from the planetarium, but decided against it. The old adage of "trust no one" niggled at the back of his mind and he listened to it. 

Good old-fashioned instincts had served his purposes more often than not.

He studied the bus routes, the subway trains. It was a complicated system and its tight weave of multicolored lines and numbers and names almost made his eyes cross.

But he hopped aboard Metropolis Six at noon and was in the heart of the Southside less than twenty minutes later. 

It was a dusty cracked sidewalk and overpass sort of area, the kind his mother would have had a heart attack if she'd known he'd been walking around there.

The streets were wide, maybe for trucks? Pete crossed quickly, trying to look in every direction, not seeing very much. The factory loomed in front of him, strangely still.

Its gate was eight feet high and crowned with razor-wire. Pete looked around for a bell, a knocker something to get him inside, but he saw nothing.

Shaking the gate in frustration, he heard a voice from behind. "What's up, fella?" 

Pete nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he felt instant relief when confronted by an old man, wizened and bent with arthritis.

"I'm trying to get into the factory," Pete replied politely. He smoothed his hand over the chain he'd been rattling a few seconds before. "Is there an office entrance?"

The old man had a wheezy laugh. "This place has been closed for years." A grin showed blackened gums, and the brown eyes narrowed. "You ain't from around here, are you?"

Pete backed away nervously. "I'm from around here. You know, over there." He motioned toward some vague point north. "But, yo. I'm cool. I know where I am." He waved his arms a little in what he hoped was a menacing way. "So don't mess with me, man."

The old man was amused. "Calm down, fella. I was gonna ask if you needed directions, but I guess you don't."

"Oh." Pete felt a deep flush of embarrassment. "Actually " He pulled out a wad of photos from his pocket. They were all pictures of Clark. "I'm looking for someone. He's a friend of mine and he's in trouble and I really need to find him right away." He shoved a photograph toward the stranger. "You haven't seen him, have you?"

"This city's got five million people, kid," the old man said, not even bothering to look. "You ain't gonna find one person in the middle of all them folks. Especially if he don't want to be found."

The words stung like hard truth. "I'm sorry," Pete said. He put the photo away. "I have to try." 

"I wish you all the luck in the world, but you'll probably have to go to the cops. Not that they'll help you much," the old man said darkly. He reached out and patted Pete on the shoulder with a gnarled hand. "You should go home, sonny. Go back to the farm and leave Metropolis behind. I can tell you're not a city boy. You'll get hurt if you stick around here."

Pete edged away from the patronizing touch, his ire flaring. "Thanks, but I'm fine. Are there any bars around here?"

An eyebrow was raised. "You ain't old enough to drink."

"Yeah, but I'm old enough to try and find my friend and I have a feeling he's been out drinking. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I see a place I can try out. Thanks anyway," Pete said, walking determinedly toward a bar named "The Pink Pussycat" -- stationed just yards away. 

Five minutes later, he exited, thoroughly disgusted. Slowly, he made his way around the block, stopping in every store, talking to anyone who would listen and hearing nothing but apathy in reply.

An hour later, Pete found himself back in front of the factory. The old man was gone.

Pulling out his map and a pen, he drew an "X" through the tiny square representing that street.

One down, and an entire city left to go.

~*~

Ten days later, sixty more "x"'s on the map. Frustration dug in like a cold knife and Pete angrily tossed the map aside in favor of the dog-eared newspaper shared by the YMCA's thirty other full-time residents. 

He scanned it at first, annoyed by its density, the sheer _amount_ of information it threw at him. The local section alone was five times thicker than the Ledger's New Year's annual. Who could write so damn much and how frightening was it that there was so much to write about.

Nothing new, nothing interesting, until 

_"Odds and Ends"_

Strange happenings in Vermilion Square as a nightly series of burglaries have stumped the police and caused high-end businesses to change their locks almost nightly.

A burglar of either great ingenuity -- or freakish strength -- has been breaking and entering nightly at the posh consumer palaces that line Metropolis' ritzier streets, without leaving so much as a fingerprint behind, not even on steel vault doors that have been found, in some cases, literally ripped from their hinges. 

The businesses, concerned about the impact such news might have on their uppercrust clientele, have begged the police to keep quiet about the break-ins, but one source told this columnist, he'd "never seen anything like it."

The stores in question refused to comment, but you have to wonder if there's something odd afoot on the snazzier sides of Metropolis."

Pete bolted upright, the newspaper quivering in his grasp. He read it twice, then a third time, concentrating on every word.

Damn it, Clark, what the hell have you been doing?

Okay, the first thing he'd have to do was call the paper. No, wait, call the reporter and find out where they got their information and take it from there. Alone.

Pete searched for the byline, finding it in italicized print, right beneath the headline.

_"By Chloe Sullivan, Columnist for the Daily Planet"_

The paper fell from Pete's hand.

~*~

The traffic didn't stop in Vermilion Square, not even when the stores had closed for the night. Neon signs glittered in waves around him and Pete never felt more lonely than he did that moment, standing still in a sea of chaos.

He e-mailed Dr. Swann before coming, trust issues be damned. It was a purposefully cryptic message with Chloe's article attached, but if the guy was the genius everyone said he was, Pete knew he'd figure it out. He'd hoped for an immediate response like the ones Clark used to get, but after two hours nothing came. 

Maybe the good doctor was afraid as well.

Smart man, smart man, Pete thought, his teeth chattering and not with cold. He stood outside of Willinoma, the self-proclaimed "most expensive department store in the world" and wondered if Clark would show up. Wondered if he'd even notice with the speed and all 

Wondered if Clark would be sane enough not to snap Pete's neck like a pretzel the minute he saw him.

At this chilling thought, Pete quickly unzipped his backpack and pulled out the lead box Jonathan gave him containing a good-sized chunk of green Kryptonite. 

Okay, that was good. Now when he saw Clark, he'd just whip out the rock, take off the ring and then 

Pete blinked, staring at the reflection of neon in the stone.

And then Clark would find himself another piece of Red Kryptonite and head back out into the wild, but this time, with hatred for his only friend in his heart.

Pete slowly shut the box. That wasn't going to work.

No, as dangerous as it was, he'd have to talk to Clark. Talk and listen and really understand, no matter how nuts the guy was, no matter how crazy everything seemed Pete would have to listen. Stick by Clark's side, slowly bringing Clark back from the desert he'd banished himself to.

Because Metropolis was a desert, devoid of the water of compassion. Or care.

But Pete cared. He cared about a lot of things. Clark was his friend, the Kents were his other family and maybe everything could be all right again if he'd jiggle fate a little in the right direction. 

Spin the situation toward the good. Believe in the person he knew Clark was underneath all the pain and rage. Believe in the alien too, the foreign part of Clark that might be reasoned with.

Maybe they just hadn't been introduced to each other yet, Clark and Kal-El. Maybe they could be brothers inside one body, the human and the alien, working together, no matter how the father tried to separate them. 

Jor-El may not think too much of humans, but Clark did, and Kal-El? He could definitely be convinced to go along with his other half's desires. Why not? Humans were kind of cool in their own way. If Kal-El and Clark could be united 

Then nothing could stop them. 

Not even good ol' Dad.

A small hope stirred inside Pete's heart. Now _that_ was a plan. 

He stuffed the box into his backpack. His ears caught the deep roar of a motorcycle in the distance, getting closer.

It came into view a few seconds later, carrying a leather-clad rider, sans helmet and wearing sunglasses even in the middle of the night. Pete felt a warm breeze as the bike swerved past, mere feet away. He saw a flash of red on the handlebars and knew it was Clark.

The bike skidded to a stop. Clark got off and strode toward the store with a predator's smile, every movement of his body a dare. And a warning.

Undeterred, Pete followed.

~*~

fin


End file.
